


Pocket Watch

by ekim



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Crazy Medic, M/M, Turbine - Freeform, scout's perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24210769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekim/pseuds/ekim
Summary: There's been a mysterious accident between RED's Medic and Engineer. Scout chalks it up to the doctor finally losing it, but a larger mystery lays between the cracks in this narrative.
Relationships: Medic/Scout (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	Pocket Watch

**Author's Note:**

> hey gamers it's me again. back with another exciting adventure between scout and medic! (i really like those two, if you haven't noticed) there's a sort of graphic scene between engineer, but it isn't overly violent.

It had been a typical day on Turbine for Scout. Bounce out of respawn, meatshot some BLUs. Rinse and repeat. Near the end of the workday, the score was 2 to 2, and both teams were cooped up in their respective posts, waiting for someone to make a move. 

Scout had resorted to spending the stalemate with Engineer. Currently, they were having a passionate argument about how dispensers should supply Bonk instead of metal. Engineer held his chin lazily against his yellow glove as he watched Scout dramatically explain why limitless amounts of Bonk could ensure victory. Dell chuckled, countering Scout's case by mentioning how no one else could stomach the drink. What use would Bonk serve to the rest of the team? Scout, immune to his teasing, insisted that he could capture BLU's intel all by himself. The rest of his team was practically worthless. 

Well, Dell said, prove it. 

I will, Scout replied. 

Scout dragged his feet as he exited respawn. The bullet through his brain was a quick and painless death, but his ego had been deflated. Stupid, camping Sniper. 

He elected that not going back to Engie's nest would be the optimal choice of plan. He loved pestering the Texan when he was bored, but now the shoe was on the other foot. 

Scout sighed as he watched their Soldier and Medic gallop into the air ducts. They were probably going to claim mid. Yeah, Scout thought. Good luck with that. If Medic didn't have the Vaccinator on, then they were both doomed. That idiot Sniper had a dispenser placed right next to him as he waited for REDs to peak the doors. He was being pocketed by a dispenser. God, BLU Engie was such a kiss ass. 

He felt a little relieved knowing that someone else would suffer the same fate as himself. Death here wasn't scary, but annoying. Scout hated the feeling of being outdone by someone else. Come to think of it, he was probably being targetted by all of BLU because, without him, RED stood no chance. He carried RED.

"Alert! The enemy has taken our intelligence." 

Scout hurled himself down the stairs that led into the intel room. BLU must have broken through Engie's defense! That was a minor worry, though, considering he could kill anyone with his eyes closed. 

Before he knew it, Scout was being sprayed with blood and giblets. He wiped the gore from his face as a sentry beeped nearby. 

"The enemy has dropped our intelligence." 

"Slither on back to hell, coward!" he heard Engineer whoop from behind the wall. Scout shrugged, figuring that some dimwit BLU went to grab the intel and forgot completely about the sentry just a few feet away. 

Scout plodded back to respawn. The day was almost over, and he knew neither team would push with such little time left. Fighting would recommence tomorrow. It wasn't a big deal to Scout because he never cared about who won. All he wanted was to be the MVP. 

If he was early to respawn, then he'd get the front seat in Engie's truck. Even if a cool breeze in the bed of his truck was refreshing, he still had to sit with four other rancid men. Riding shotgun meant sitting next to Pyro (he had been moved permanently to the front for several misdemeanors). Half the times you could understand him, he was actually pretty funny. Engineer would cut in sometimes too, either with a joke, or a story. Scout was free to talk about anything up front. Medic always scolded Scout, saying that he was 'giving him a headache'. Soldier and Heavy would agree, and Scout would be forced to shut up.

Just as he was about to call shotgun, a distressed, Texan voice picked up on his earpiece. 

"Git offa me! Damnit-" Engineer was interrupted by a feral snarl. His voice picked up again, but it was shrill and pained. "I need some doggone help!" Another ripple of growls broke through the line before it went silent. 

When Scout arrived at Engie's nest, Medic, Heavy, and Demoman were already at the scene. At first, he assumed that the three were fighting off a spy disguised as Engineer. Hardhat must have been stabbed by the Your Eternal Reward- that's why the line went quiet. But what was with the deranged snarls? Could they have belonged to Spy? It wasn't impossible, but so rare due to how sophisticated both Spies were. 

The more he gawked at the quarrel, though, the more he realized that Demoman and Heavy were holding Medic back.

Medic's head rocked left and right as he snapped erratically at the two mercs gripping his arms. His bleached white teeth were pink like he'd just drank one of Spy's fancy wines. Glistening spittle pooled at the corners of his lips and some of it spattered against Demoman's cheek. 

"What happened to Doitsch-bag?" 

At that, Medic's head swiveled almost abnormally towards Scout. He snarled, gurgling on his own saliva. Their eyes locked for just a second, and Scout felt the hair on his arms and neck stand up. His eyes, bloodshot and dilated, focused on Scout's paling face. 

Without warning, Medic struggled, breaking free from Demoman's clasp. Medic lunged forward, but Heavy held resistant, and he instead swung forward like a plastic bag caught in the wind. Scout backed up instinctually, and Medic tugged violently at his arm. There was a pop and Scout seriously thought the man's shoulder had dislocated. 

Heavy reached forward and snatched the flailing limb, wrenching it behind his back. Medic spat, hissing furiously in profane German. He must've realized he'd been captured.

With his struggling complete, his mouth fell open and his tongue lolled out in long, breathy pants. Those wild eyes never left Scout's. A voice drifted at the back of his mind reminding him, never look a wild animal in the eyes. 

Scout looked away. 

"Up ye go, lad. Cannae ye stand?" Demoman cooed to a shaking pile of overalls. Oh God, Scout realized with terror. That's not Spy. That's our Engineer. 

Engineer nodded but used Demoman heavily as a brace as he shakily stood. Demoman looked like he was about to help him cross the street. 

One denim strap dangled limply at his side. The golden clasp still hung on its hook, implying the strap had been torn free. There were small punctures in the red fabric of the Engineer's button-down. Thick blood seeped from Engineer's purpling nose and blotchy pink handprints enveloped his neck. Several bite marks littered the bruised, exposed skin on his jaw and left arm. Scout thought about a domestic abuse PSA he'd seen on the television once. 

How had Medic transformed a gritty, badass Texan into this frail husk of a man?

Scout scrubbed his eyes under the tepid water, recollecting the day's events. The ride home hadn't been too talkative, besides Soldier constantly hassling Heavy over why Medic was trying to bite him. Scout, being the only available mercenary who could (kind of) drive, ended up replacing Engineer in his daily driving duties. Though he'd never actually learned how to use stick, he could still press the pedals, push in the clutch, and steer properly. Engineer sat between him and Pyro, weakly shifting gears each time it was required. It was a difficult process, but everyone else agreed that it was much safer than allowing a debilitated Texan behind the wheel. 

Towards the end of the ride, when Scout glanced at the rearview mirror, he noticed that Medic's head had been covered with a brown potato sack. He wanted to laugh, but a sinking pit in his gut prompted him to remain silent. Somehow, he still felt Medic's eyes hunting him. His own gaze flicked back to the dusty road, and he sighed in relief. The base was swiftly approaching. No more traumatized engineers. No more creepy doctors. 

As soon as they had parked, Scout threw open the door and hightailed it inside. He practically fell onto his bed, exhausted from the emotional stress. Caring about people was arduous. Why did it have to be Medic that went looney? And Engineer? That was too much to sacrifice! Who would cook them dinner? 

Scout grunted crabbily, lifting himself from the bed to pull off his cleats. Screw Medic for interfering with his everyday routine. All that he wanted to do was jack off to the memory of Ms Pauling's cleavage and fall asleep. But, despite imagining her in all types of sexy positions, he could not get it up. Scout slumped against the bed and stared up at the cottage cheese ceiling. Finally, he fell asleep, but only after several instances of him beating Medic up had floated through his imagination. 

Hours later, Scout was jarred awake by a nightmare. He snorted, jolting upwards, staring idly into the void of his dimly lit room. The contents of the nightmare were lost, but the blood was thrumming in his ears. The terror still lingered. 

Scout's sight adjusted to the darkness as he scanned the room, familiarizing himself. The panic was subsiding, and now he just felt annoyed at being so suddenly awoken. His shirt clung to his chest with the blood and sweat sticking like glue against his skin. Scout mistakenly chanced a sniff under his armpits. 

He gagged immediately, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed vigorously. Struggling for air, he clutched his chest. The sticky mixture stuck to his hand as he pulled it away, stringy coagulates of bodily fluids becoming a web between his hand and the fabric. 

Those events were what led Scout here, lukewarm water spilling over his grimy body. He poured a glob of shampoo into his palm and rubbed it into his slick skin, his greasy hair. Still, as he smeared soap along his forearms and thighs, washing off the grunge of the day, the filthiness resided. Medic's face, his eyes especially, burned a hole through his subconscious. The secrets behind what he'd done to Engineer were what really unsettled him. 

Scout twisted the knob on the rattling, silver pipe that ran around the extent of the bathroom. The showerhead squealed and the water became a slow trickle down the pasty white acrylic walls. No matter how hard he twisted the knob, the showerhead would always leak. 

Hunger gnawed at the emptiness of his stomach. He'd gone his entire life living with seven older brothers, so table scraps were a common delicacy after hours of running and chasing his pack of wild siblings. Another PB&J sandwich would have to suffice for tonight's dinner. 

After throwing his soiled shirt into the fetid hamper cart, Scout bounced, shirtless, down the hallway towards the kitchen. A rich cloud of savory aromas struck him like a foam bat to the face as he stepped through the doorway. He followed the scent almost comically, sliding across the tile floor towards the mass of fat that was their Heavy. An aluminum pot with delicious steam lifting into the exhaust hood sat above a low burner. He stood, stolid at the white oven, then took a wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the pot. 

"That smells wicked good, man. I didn't think you could do anyting othah than fire yuh gun," Scout complimented as he peered over Heavy's broad shoulder. 

"Is simple solyanka. Mama teach me and sisters dis recipe. Not have all ingredient she uses. Veel not be as good." 

"You freakin' kidding me? Dis looks amazing! You gotter make dinnah moe often. I'm sick of eatin' Solly's canned crap." 

"Yes, okay." 

Scout pulled himself away from the heavenly scent and seated himself at the long dinner table. Six of the chairs were empty, the missing presences substituted only by a ghostly memory. Anxiety bit at his legs, his feet, making him want to stand up and run. The room was silent, only filled by Heavy's occasional stirring. The wooden spoon tapped at the rounded aluminum. 

The silence was clogging his ears as though he'd just swam to the bottom of the pool. He didn't feel that hungry anymore. 

"Uh, I'm goin' back to my room. Don' feel good alluva sudden." 

Demoman and Pyro, the only mercenaries that were company to Heavy, looked up at him expressionlessly. They must have felt the isolation, too. Scout pushed in his chair, only seconds away from freedom. One foot out the doorway, Scout was called by Heavy. 

"Take dis bowl to Doktor. He not have any dinner, maybe food in belly make feel better." 

Scout was outraged, his jaw tearing open to exclaim his disbelief. Why choose him to bring soup to the schizoid doctor when Demoman and Pyro were perfect candidates? Okay, maybe not Pyro. He'd burn Medic like a piece of Saturday's toast (not that that was a bad thing). But Demoman was completely worthy, eyepatch and all. Sure, he was a raging alcoholic and probably didn't even know where the infirmary was, but he was still an option. 

Mouth still agape and Heavy looking expectantly at him, Scout had to say something. He spluttered, trying to find his words. 

"Why?!" Of all things, of all things, of the literal thesaurus of arguments Scout had prepared, a squeaky inquiry of Heavy's command was all he could come up with? 

"Because you say are going to room. You make small trip to Doktor, den back to room. Easy." 

"Easy?" Scout mocked, astounded. "This isn't a walk in the pahk! We're talking about Medic here. The fruitcake? Da guy who tore into Engie like he was a piñata? Thanks, but I like my trail mix wit-out da nuts." 

Heavy's English had never been exemplary. The job required a minimum amount of knowledge in the language, such as knowing the difference between right and left or stop and go. Heavy had perfected the talent of shooting his Sasha and tearing down the enemy team, which didn't involve lots of conversing. What he understood now was due to focused listening and an ability to interpret body language and tone of voice. From what he observed, Heavy could decipher that Scout was apprehensive. 

"No worry on Doktor. He tied up. Put mask ofer face so no bite. Is safe," Heavy assured and held a steaming bowl of solyanka out.

"Alright, alright! I'll freakin' take the dumb soup to him. But you owe me, Fatty." Scout hesitantly gripped the edges of the bowl, then hissed, withdrawing his hands and clutching them to his naked chest. "Gawd, man! Dat's scalding hot!" He grumbled, examining his hand. "Got like, an oven mitt or somethin'?" 

Heavy hummed, unsure of what an oven mitt was. He understood that Scout's baby hands were frail, and he did not have his white wrappings to protect such sensitive skin. Something would have to act as a barrier between the warm bowl of soup and Scout's tiny, infant fingers. 

"Ah, yes! Here, have towel." Heavy shrouded the plastic bowl neatly in a stained kitchen towel and again held it out for Scout to take. 

Frustrated and defeated, Scout snatched the soup and stormed down the hallway. The infirmary was not something he enjoyed visiting. It was always freezing and smelled like chemicals that stung his nostrils. If anyone needed to trim their nose hairs, they'd come down here and take a whiff. How could someone stay in there for more than fifteen minutes without passing out from lack of oxygen? No way Medic was human, but that made sense, considering he came from Germany. The guy was diabolical. If Scout got his hands on some holy water, maybe he could purge him. No person, sane or not, would miss Medic. 

Scout paced outside of the double traffic doors. If he went back to the kitchen with a full bowl, then Heavy would yell at him. If he went back with an empty bowl, Heavy would become suspicious. The only way out of this was through it. 

With his confidence rising, Scout took a deep breath and pushed through the doors. Immediately, a blast of arctic wind slapped his entire body. Waves of different medical substances entered through his nose, making his lungs hurt. He pinched his nostrils and inhaled through his mouth, hoping to block out the wretched smells, but that made his throat ache with a minty coldness. This place was worse than the dentist's office. It was worse than breaking his arm after falling off the monkey bars during recess in fifth grade. It was worse than having dreams of Spy. Naked Spy.

Maybe he could still turn back? No, this was bigger than Heavy. Taking this food to Medic meant that Scout was the bravest man in Teufort. He'd finally prove to those dogshit BLU's that he was the alpha merc. Medals would be awarded, teammates would chant his name. Maybe the war would be cancelled. Scout was too powerful to be limited to a scattergun. It wouldn't be fair to BLU if Scout was apart of the combat. Oh God, Ms Pauling would marry him on the spot! 

Distracted by his thoughts, Scout was guided through Medic's infirmary to a thick, brown door with rainbow stickers glued to it. A perfect indicator of what freakish abnormality lay beyond this portal. He practised a few scenarios in his head before gripping the doorknob with unsteady fingers. Medic attacks him from the side? Throw bowl of soup and run back to Boston. Medic runs at him with a huge bone saw? Empty the bowl of soup onto the floor and let him slip on it, then run back to Boston. There, two perfectly calculated plans. Nothing Medic could do would prevent Scout from leaving this hellhole within a 2-second timespan. Hopefully.


End file.
